Skelgill looks around rather disparagingly.
They are signed in and directed to a broad cream sofa that has clearly been designed with something other than sitting comfortably in mind. In front of them a bank of TVs continuously screen commercials, presumably created by WNKR Advertising. Skelgill – a man who watches precious little television and who associates the commercial break with putting on the kettle – seems thoroughly unimpressed. However, his attention is captured as a crowd of people emerge from a lift and begin an elaborate ritual of shaking hands and kissing. It appears that this is a client-agency farewell, following a successful meeting. The agency staff are exclusively female: young, slim, blonde, tanned, black-clad in close-fitting skirts and tops, with impeccable finishing school accents. Their clients, conversely, are male and older, and are dressed in ill-fitting off-the-peg business suits and cheap shoes, and carrying scuffed briefcases. Despite their apparent disadvantage, it is the males who are on the receiving end of the flattery, any comments they might make being greeted by choruses of “Super” and “Absolutely”.
Skelgill leans across to DS Jones.
‘Look at that, Jones – the gentry picking the pockets of the working classes.’
DS Jones grins.
‘Notice the smart ones are all women, Guv.’
‘Not all of us, I’m glad to say.’
This voice comes from behind them. They turn to see a man standing close by – he has made a clandestine approach by means of a small service lift marked ‘Goods Only.’ He leans forward, hand outstretched.
‘Gary Railston-Fukes. Client Services Director.’
As they travel with him to the fourth floor, they take in his appearance, no doubt drawing appropriate conclusions. His clothes are casual but clearly expensive, his haircut likewise; his build is average, overweight around the face and midriff; his eyes, behind long lashes, are somewhat furtive; he bites his nails, which are nicotine-stained, and there is a residual smell of the ashtray about his person. Still boyish, but showing signs of going to seed at the premature age of thirty-four, Gary Railston-Fukes is a rare survivor from the days when Ivan Tregilgis had worked and learned his craft at this same agency, including the period during which Krista Morocco numbered among Ivan’s clients. DS Jones’s team at HQ has identified Railston-Fukes as someone who can perhaps shed more light on the relationships of that time.
‘Fly down?’ Railston-Fukes speaks at last, as though he feels he ought to say something.
‘Train.’
‘Shambles aren’t they?’ Railston-Fukes does not wait for a reply. ‘Privatise some sense into them, I always used to say – but they’ve botched that and left a worse mess. You should try commuting by rail down here. National disgrace.’
His voice is clipped, his accent somewhere between Harrow and the Old Kent Road, though it is difficult to tell which half is affected. His resting facial expression seems to feature a self-satisfied sneer.
‘Last door on the right.’
Railston-Fukes ushers them ahead of him along a broad, thickly carpeted corridor between floor-to-ceiling walls of smoked glass. His office is of the same construction; you can see out but not in. Skelgill looks like he is wondering about the invisible denizens of the opulent glazed suites they have just passed.
‘Have a seat.’
Railston-Fukes slumps into his own swivel chair and rests his feet on an open drawer of his desk, stretching out languidly and folding his hands across his midriff.
‘You wanted to speak with me about Ivan Tregilgis?’
Skelgill nods and indicates with an open palm that DS Jones will begin the questions.
‘You heard of course that Ivan Tregilgis was murdered?’
‘The marketing press were wetting themselves all last week.’ Railston-Fukes shakes his head and grins to himself. ‘Just like Ivan to go out with a bang.’
‘When did you last have contact with him?’
Now Railston-Fukes gives a wry smile, as if he likes the idea of being a possible suspect.
‘How does eight years ago sound?’
‘Not since he left here?’
Railston-Fukes nods.
‘Provided you mean contact of any substance? Naturally I’ve seen him at the odd industry bash – we generally exchanged slurred insults and best wishes.’
‘When was the most recent occasion?’
‘Just before Christmas. His crew picked up a top creative award.’
‘Can you think of any reason why someone might want to kill Ivan Tregilgis?’
Railston-Fukes shrugs.
‘Jealousy?’
‘Could you elaborate?’
‘Good looking. Talented. Successful. Rich.’ He squints, as though he is accustomed to speaking through a veil of tobacco smoke. ‘And still had a woman on each arm at that last awards ceremony.’
‘Did you recognise them?’
‘Krista Jonsson, yeah. Morocco, as she is now.’
‘And the other?’
‘Never seen her before. Looked like a tart on hire for the night.’
His gaze rests penetratingly upon DS Jones’s blouse; but she gives as good as she gets.
‘Are you jealous, Mr Railston-Fukes?’
‘Yeah.’ Perhaps surprisingly Railston-Fukes answers without hesitation or apparent inhibition. ‘But I’m not bitter.’
DS Jones nods.
‘It’s hardly grounds for murder, is it?’
‘Not in my book, no. But maybe somebody closer.’
‘Such as?’
‘Wife. Girlfriend. Wife’s lover. Girlfriend’s husband?’ He grins at his own joke. ‘What about that dork he set up with?’
‘Are you referring to Dermott Goldsmith?’
Railston-Fukes nods slowly.
‘It was no surprise when Ivan told me he was starting his own shop – but when he mentioned Goldsmith I thought I was hearing voices.’
‘What was wrong with him?’
‘Nobody could stand him. Not the best qualification for this business.’
At this, the detectives might be excused for querying Gary Railston-Fukes’s own rise to seniority.
‘How do you know about Dermott Goldsmith?’
‘He worked here just before they broke away.’
‘For how long?’
‘Under a year, thank Christ. He joined from TW&TS.’
‘Ivan Tregilgis presumably got on well with him?’
Railston-Fukes sighs.
‘He must have seen something no one else could.’
‘How well did you know Ivan Tregilgis?’
‘I wouldn’t say we were best mates – didn’t socialise outside work – but we shared a few nights out with the same crowd. We joined WNKR on the same intake – did the same induction course.’
‘And did you subsequently work together?’
‘Not really. I was in a different account group – fags and booze clients.’
Here he smirks, as if he realises there is no need to point out that this was manifestly right up his street.
‘You mentioned Krista Morocco – she was a client at the time?’
‘Of Ivan’s group, yeah.’
‘And was there a relationship outside of work?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Not really, Mr Railston-Fukes – you were there at the time.’
Railston-Fukes changes his feet over with little regard for the furniture.
‘I only ever saw her at client-agency shindigs. We have annual cricket matches, tennis, that sort of thing. They obviously got on well – but that was standard form with Ivan – charm the knickers off a nun. Undying love, though?’ He gives an indifferent shrug of the shoulders.
Skelgill sits forward to speak, and DS Jones looks relieved to have a break. Railston-Fukes is hard work, aggressive and brash, and consistently sardonic.
‘There’s just a couple more points, sir – we shan’t detain you much longer.’
‘Take as long as y
ou like.’ He casts an uncaring hand at his in-tray. ‘Beats my admin.’
Skelgill seems torn between distaste and respect. Railston-Fukes’s cynicism and barely suppressed profanities are not endearing – but at least he appears to be honest, and does not beat about the bush.
‘When Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates was formed, did they take any of WNKR’s clients with them?’
‘Nope.’ Railston-Fukes grins with affected admiration. ‘Hard to believe at the time – a breakaway with zero business. Hardly qualified as a breakaway.’
‘Not even Krista Morocco’s account?’
He shakes his head.
‘No enemies here, if that’s what you’re driving at.’
‘They must have been confident of their abilities?’
‘Dammed stupid, I thought – but what do I know?’
Skelgill nods and moves to conclude the discussion.
‘Just one last question, sir – is there anyone else still here who might have worked with Ivan Tregilgis?’
Railston-Fukes begins to shake his head, but then he obviously brings to mind a possibility, for he raises a finger and reaches for his phone. He dials an internal number, and inhales as it is answered.
‘Mooro – it’s Gary – did you join before Tregilgis left to set up GT&A?’ There is a short pause before he continues. ‘Got a couple of people like to hear from you.’
31. THE IRISH GIRL
‘Mooro’ – or Planning Director, Marie O’Moore, according to the plate on her door – is revealed to be none other than the combative redhead they had witnessed earlier, ready to take on a traffic warden twice her size. It appears she was unaware of the watching detectives, at least going by her unconcerned reaction as they enter her office. Introductions completed, Skelgill begins to lead the interview.
‘Ms O’Moore, I understand you may have worked with Ivan Tregilgis in the past?’
‘Please –’ She holds up a hand like a traffic cop. ‘You must call me Marie.’
‘Sure – no problem – Marie.’
‘I did indeed – and what a terrible tragedy. I only pray you catch the devil behind it all.’
Skelgill nods several times, but before he can respond the girl suddenly stands up and puts her hands on her hips.
‘I don’t suppose that ignoramus Fukes offered you so much as a cup of tea?’
‘Er, no – actually.’
‘And what about food? You’ll have a bite? Don’t worry, I’ll find something.’
Skelgill glances at DS Jones, who gives a non-committal shrug. But he is beaming happily – this is the sort of salesmanship of which he can only approve.
‘If it’s no trouble, Marie?’
‘Of course not.’ She reaches for her phone and taps out a number with long green talons. ‘How about you, Sergeant – would it be tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, please.’
Somebody now answers and the girl smiles into the handset.
‘Hi, Charlie – it’s Marie. How’s it going now? Grand. Look – thanks for that mountain of bacon rolls this morning – the client crowd were in seventh heaven.’ (Skelgill puts a hand to his stomach.) ‘They’d had a heavy night, by all accounts. That’s right. I know. Now – I’ve got a couple of starving visitors in my office. Is there any chance you could rustle me up a plate of sandwiches, a pot of tea and a skinny latte?’ She glances at DS Jones to confirm her guess; the latter nods her approval. ‘I already do owe you, Charlie. I shall – I promise – just remind me on the night. Thanks, Charlie – oh, and be sure to code it up to one of Fukesey’s accounts now.’
‘Very kind of you, Marie.’
‘Ach, it’s no problem.’ She replaces the receiver and grins warmly. ‘You can’t go around catching criminals on an empty stomach, now.’
‘Which brings me back to the original question, if we may. You said, Marie, that you once worked with Ivan Tregilgis?’
‘That’s right, I did.’ She fixes her emerald eyes on his. They seem to fill with life and flicker with a light of their own. ‘I grew up in a village near Galway – have you been, by the way?’ (Skelgill shakes his head apologetically.) ‘You must – we’ve a beautiful cathedral. Then I studied media at Queen’s in Dublin and when I graduated, like most of my contemporaries I headed across the water. That would be about eight years ago. I started here on the trainee scheme – it meant I worked in every department, so Ivan was my boss for a few months. Great feller. Of course, he was a Celt, you know – Cornish.’
Skelgill nods – as a Cumbrian Celt the provenance of the name Tregilgis has not escaped him.
‘How long after that did he leave?’
‘It was actually while I was working for him.’ She pauses to reflect. ‘You know, Inspector – he asked me more than once to join him in the new start-up.’
‘You didn’t.’
Skelgill says this as a statement – for it would seem to be obvious. Nonetheless, she shakes her head thoughtfully.
‘What put you off?’
‘You know – I was just wondering there... maybe if I’d joined them, this would never have happened.’
‘How do you mean?’
The Irish eyes glisten, as though she recalls something of import from her past.
‘Ach – just fate – I don’t know.’ She blinks a couple of times and gathers herself. ‘But to answer your question, Inspector – I just didn’t think it was the right move for me at the time. For your first job, a big agency like this is ideal. We have training programmes and courses, and you get to work in various departments, so you can find a discipline that suits you. I really wanted to get a couple of years under my belt here. On top of that, I was interested in Planning, while Ivan wanted to position the new shop as having a Creative edge.’
Skelgill nods comprehendingly.
‘And where did Dermott Goldsmith fit in?’
The girl frowns.
‘That’s a good question, Inspector – which I really can’t answer. I didn’t have too much to do with him, but he wasn’t the most popular one about the agency.’
‘That seems to be a fairly widely held view.’
‘Ach, he was harmless really – once you got to understand him – the mind of a teenager in the body of a man. I’m sure he was talented an’ all – but he didn’t take kindly to not getting his own way. And there was all that business about calling himself Lord.’
‘And did you work directly with him?’
‘He was never my line manager – but we were alongside one another in a project team for a short while.’
‘Did you by any chance have a client called Krista Jonsson, now Krista Morocco?’
The girl nods, but just then there is a knocking and she rises and crosses to open the door.
‘Come in, Gina – that’s magnificent, now. You’re a star – and say thanks to Charlie for me.’
A woman in a catering uniform bears a tray laden with sandwiches and their drinks.
‘Inspector, Sergeant – I run a course in presentation skills and one of the first things I teach is that you should never try to compete with the tea-lady – so I think we should deal with this feast before we continue.’
Skelgill nods approvingly, and moves his chair so the woman can get at the desk and deposit her burden. There is a small triplicate pad on the tray, and Marie O’Moore leans over with her pen. As Skelgill watches, she signs it in the name “G. Railston-Fukes”, and winks as she catches his eye. For a couple of minutes she oversees the dispensing of plates, sandwiches, teas and coffee, and settles down, with just a drink for herself.
Skelgill rotates a ciabatta two-handed until he finds the most propitious angle of attack.
‘So what is it you do here, Marie?’
She prefaces her reply with a self-effacing grin.
‘Not a lot, some would say. But in a nutshell it’s all about identifying insights that will help our ads engage the right people.’
‘Sounds like we have something in common.’
The girl shrugs.
‘I can’t help feeling your job’s rather more worthy than mine, Inspector.’
‘I wish we had your resources.’ Skelgill makes a sweeping movement with his sandwich to indicate her hi-tec, high-spec environment. ‘Have you ever seen inside a police station?’
‘Only when the guards invited us into their Christmas parties – under drinking age we were, an’ all!’
Skelgill grins, but the notion perhaps brings him back to matters closer to hand.
‘Marie – we were talking about Krista Morocco. What was the situation as you remember it?’
The girl leans back in her chair and runs slender fingers through the great fan of red hair.
‘Things were all going pretty smoothly, as I recall. We were in the run-up to making a new commercial, so there were a lot of meetings – pre-production, casting, location checks and suchlike.’
‘And how would you describe the people-relationships?’
‘Well, Krista was a lovely client – and that’s a rare thing. And she always had a twinkle in her eye when she dealt with Ivan.’
‘Was there anything between them? At a personal level, I mean.’
Now the girl rocks her head from side to side, and her keen eyes lose their sharp focus. It is as if she is replaying old events in her mind, and casting about for a new perspective.’
‘It was basically a professional relationship as far as I could see. I’m not sure how long they’d known each other before I joined. Sure – they got on well – but I never saw them do anything improper, so to speak.’
‘I gather client-agency liaisons are frowned upon?’
The girl grins.
‘It could be an expensive bunk up if the client takes their bat home and their budget.’
Skelgill smiles briefly, but his tone becomes more grave.
‘Marie, we believe something from that time may have a bearing upon recent events. Can you remember anything that struck you as out of the ordinary – thinking especially of Ivan Tregilgis, Dermott Goldsmith or Krista Morocco?’
Now she slides her hands over her scalp, drawing her hair into a reluctant ponytail. A frown creases her brow, and she seems to wince as some memory pricks her conscience.
Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 16